


Three Days the World Ended

by turingtestflunker



Series: The Past is Another Planet [4]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Enterprise, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Character Death, Disasters, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, workplace discrimination
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23725315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turingtestflunker/pseuds/turingtestflunker
Summary: Three interconnected stories about world and galaxy changing disasters: 9/11, the Xindi attack, and Wolf 359, and their far-reaching consequences.
Series: The Past is Another Planet [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1289255
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	1. On the Edge of the Atlantic, On an Island, Where the River Meets the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm doing something possibly a little bit over-ambitious here with lots of original characters and fan theories about 22nd Century Earth politics. If you're only interested in the stuff with the Picards, you can skip to chapters 3, 6, and 9 when they're up and their story should make sense on its own.

At 5:30 am, in a ludicrously expensive two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, an alarm clock blares to life, playing some local Rush Limbaugh wanna-be at ear splitting volume.

Ruth startles awake at the harsh, enraged voice. Like she does every morning, 5 days a week. More like 6 days a week, these days, if she’s being honest with herself. It’s the only thing that reliably gets her out of bed on time after long nights at the office. And yesterday was one hell of a long night. It was probably 11 or midnight when she got home.

Naomi groans in frustration beside her, “Turn that shit off before I throw it out the window.”

Ruth smiles, “We’ve been over this, sweetie. We live on the 34th floor. The windows don’t open.”

Naomi grumbles angrily and reaches across Ruth to turn off the alarm clock. Ruth catches her in a brief kiss as she tries to melt back into bed. Naomi snuggles under her arm and lays her head on Ruth’s chest, jostling her left breast slightly in search of a comfortable position. Ruth does some quick and dirty mental math. She can hold Naomi for 30 minutes, maybe 45 minutes if she’s pushing it. Or she can have a decent breakfast. But not both.

“Have breakfast with me?” she whispers gently into Naomi’s ear.

“Only if you make pancakes.”

“Fine.” Ruth concedes, even though she was craving scrambled eggs and turkey bacon.

She guides a groggy and reluctant Naomi out of the bedroom by the hand. It’s strange, doing things without Claudia around. Most days Claudia likes to toddle into their room just before the alarm goes off and make angry barking sounds along with the radio. And Ruth will pick her up, balance her on her hip, and try to coax Claudia into parroting some of the words, as well as the sounds. And it won’t happen. Hasn’t happened. Not won’t. Hasn’t yet.

Their daughter is 2 years and 11 months old and she isn’t talking yet. The fancy daycare with an admissions agreement with a fantastic pre-school that she and Naomi saved and sacrificed for didn’t help. Last year was her last chance to catch up and now... that fantastic preschool isn’t going to take an almost-3 year old who hasn’t said her first word. So they sent her to stay with Naomi’s parents, while she and Ruth figure out what the hell to do.

The apartment is so quiet without her. Ruth is comforted by the sound of Naomi, trudging groggily into the kitchen to make coffee

Ruth gets ready. She showered last night, so all she needs to do is brush her teeth and run a comb through her hair. It doesn’t take long at all. Convenience isn’t the reason Ruth wears her hair short, but it certainly does pay dividends in that department. Grudgingly, she also puts on a thin coat of an extremely subdued lipstick. She hates wearing make-up, but Frank insists. Her clothes are also a point of contention. Ruth is happiest in a men’s suit and tie, tailored to fit her. The compromise she’s worked out with Frank is that she can keep the suits if she wears a silk shell in a feminine color under them, instead of a button up shirt and tie. 

Ruth walks into the kitchen, setting her suit jacket on the coat rack on the door before returning to the kitchen area “When does Hanna get in?”

“Mom should be here ‘round 8.” Naomi answers.

“Why is she driving again?” Ruth asks.

“She hates planes. Says she’s always had bad dreams about them, and if she’s had a bad dream about something, there’s no convincing her, something to do with when she was a nurse in Korea. Dad says she got really superstitious about dreams while she was over there during the war.”

“Huh.” Ruth says, buttering the pan and letting it heat up, “So they’re both super weird.”

“Be nice!” Naomi chides, “They’re both gonna be here soon, you need to get in the habit.”

“What did they say, when you told them?” Ruth asks, as she mixes the batter and pours the first two pancakes. Just small enough that they don’t merge into some kind of weird siamese pancake twins. 

Naomi’s face goes dark. She doesn’t answer.

“You haven’t told them.” Ruth says bitterly. Not for the first time.

There’s a long, fraught silence.

The list of things Naomi refuses to tell her parents is long. Some of it is fair enough. She doesn’t want to tell them about how much she drinks. Or the radical meetings she used to go to, before they had Claudia. Or the devilishly strong pot brownies she makes, when her sorority sisters come to visit. Or really, anything to do with her sorority sisters.

Some of it is maddening. Ruth understands being in the closet. She remembers high school, and feeling as if the whole world might end if anyone knew she was gay. It was the hardest thing in the world, telling her own parents. But she did it. The second she was standing on her own two feet. Because she was sick of lying. But Naomi. Naomi keeps putting off the truth. She’s as out as anyone with their friends. But she can’t tell her parents. And at first Ruth was sympathetic. Understanding. But not since Claudia. 

“I will,” Naomi insists. Also not for the first time.

“When?!” Ruth demands, as she flips the second and final pair of pancakes onto their plates.

“I’m just waiting for the right time to bring it up.”

“The right time was five years ago!” Ruth snaps.

Naomi goes silent and still for a long, terrible moment, and then says, “You don’t know them.”

Ruth inhales sharply, ready to start yelling again, to loudly remind her partner that _of course_ she doesn’t know her parents. Because Naomi won’t let her. Ruth lets the breath out through her nose instead. Yelling won’t help. They set the table in silence. 

Ruth considers just dropping it, but as they sit down to eat she knows there’s something she needs to say, “I’m not pretending to be your roommate, or whatever you’ve been telling them. David’s not going to pretend to be your ex, either. We’re both sick of that.”

“I know.” Naomi says softly.

Maybe that was her plan all along. Maybe that’s how it has to be. Maybe Ruth has to be the one to do it. If Claudia could speak, she would’ve given it away by now. If.

She softens, “When do Claudia and your dad get in?”

“5:30” Naomi offers cautiously, “Dad said she loved the plane ride over, so hopefully she won’t get too cranky. They’ll be here when you get home from work.”

Ruth shakes her head, “I’m gonna take off early and come to the airport with you and Hanna.”

“Really?” Naomi asks, happy but skeptical.

“Yeah. Frank knows he’s never gonna find an analyst as good as me who’s _also_ willing to take all his shit. Not even for what he pays me. He can huff and puff all he wants, but he’s too smart to fire me over one early night.” Ruth says, eating her first pancake the _right_ way, with a fork, and plenty of syrup and butter.

She glances out the window at the Towers. She and Naomi pay out the nose to live here, but with the long hours Ruth works, she can’t afford a long commute on top. Or really any commute. Not without pushing her level of sleep deprivation from ‘Dangerous’ to ‘Fucking Stupid’, and her days of being fucking stupid about her health ended when Claudia was born.

She looks Naomi square in the eye, “We’ll tell them together, okay? First thing.”

Naomi’s eyes widen, and she takes a sharp and sudden breath in through her nose, but she nods. Even she knows it’s past time.

“Okay.” she says, clearly already steeling herself.

Ruth grabs another pancake, covers it in a thin layer of butter and a light drizzle of syrup, and rolls it up.

“If I’m going to leave early, I should probably get in early.” she says, already dreading the very public dressing down she’s going to get either way, “I’ll call you at lunch if anything changes, but I’ll try to be back her at 5”

Naomi grabs Ruth by the wrist as she’s getting up, and pulls her in for a long, sweet kiss.

After it’s over, she says, “Thank you.”

“I love you so much.” Ruth says, not knowing it’s the last thing she’ll ever say to her partner.

“I love you, too.” Naomi replies.

Some frivolous, unreasonable part of Ruth tells her to just stay home. Take the whole day off. And Ruth wants to, she really does. But there’s a limit to how much she’s willing to tempt Frank’s ire, and she’s going to have to leave early a couple of more times, while Naomi’s parents are here. Or maybe not, depending on how they react to the big news. Either way, showing up early might take the edge off Frank’s rage.

So, with her rolled up pancake in one hand, and her bag in the other, Ruth tears herself away. She slips into her shoes at the door, opens it, smiles and waves goodbye to her partner, and shuts it behind her. She eats her rolled up pancake while she’s waiting for the elevator, and takes a look at her PDA on the ride down. She’s going to have to move some conference calls around, if she wants to be done by… 4:45? At least. Maybe earlier, depending on the wait for the elevators. 

Leaving early or not, September 11 is going to be one hell of a busy day.


	2. Where the Waters Tried to Drown Us and We Said: “We Will Not Be Drowned”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few moments from Florida, the day before the Xindi attack, and some thoughts on what exactly bridges the gap between First Contact and Enterprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Significant content warnings in the endnotes. Thanks as always to my beta Klaaraa

The worst day of Shem Aristide’s life starts out nice enough. He manages to roust Ava out of bed by three. She’s never been a natural morning person, but as a fisherman’s daughter she never had much of a choice. They take Shem’s fishing boat out on the water in the early morning darkness. Ava helms the boat these days. Shem’s lived twice as long as he ever expected to, and at the improbably old age of 86, he just doesn’t have the patience or the focus to coax the old thing out into open water. It has seen far better days. There’s just no parts for it, anymore. Ava’s made noises about going into town and using an industrial fabricator to make some. She’s got an EarthID and all that garbage from her traitor mother. So far she hasn’t gone through with it, thank God. There’s no way it would end well. 

They cast their nets around 5am. A little late for Shem’s taste, but Ava can’t help how damn slow the boat is these days. Shem’s still good at this part. The work. He’s not as strong as he used to be, but he’s still strong enough to lend a hand. All of the motions are in his bones. He’s been forgetting things for years, but never this. 

The nets are in decent shape, at least. They’ve got a good deal with one of their customers: a big spool of high quality Vulcan-made twine for a couple of coolers of fresh fish every so often. Or maybe just Vulcan style. He can’t remember, but he thinks someone told him something about that… But anyway, Ava and Shonda weave it into nets. Shem’s hands are too stiff to help, have been since before Shonda was born. He'd rather not depend on the Vulcans for anything, even indirectly, but without that twine he and Ava would’ve had to quit long ago. No one makes fishing nets anymore. Lines and hooks, sure, for hobbyists. But not nets.

They bring in a good haul. Shem’s boat can’t cover as much water as it used to, but these days the ocean is practically teeming with fish. Big ones too. Shem remembers the days when an arm length snapper was a cause for celebration. These days they throw anything smaller than that back.

They come to shore at about 2pm, just as the heat and humidity are beginning to get to Shem. He can’t tolerate it like he used to. As much as it shames him, he lets Ava carry far more than her fair share of the catch. They make their way across the beach, and up the steep embankment where the shoreline used to be, when Shem’s father was a boy. The house is a good way away from the shore. Shem remembers his grandmother hounding his father half to death about it. She was always convinced the sea was going to rise up to meet them any day, right up until she died. 

She used to tell him stories about the war, and the times before. Back when there was still real history being made on Earth, instead of the endless series of Vulcan mandates and handouts they have now. 

Shem goes inside to get a glass of cold water. Shonda is at the kitchen table, working intently on her portable computer. 

“How’s the schoolwork going?” Shem asks, as he searches for a glass. 

It takes him awhile to remember that Ava moved the glasses from under the counter by the sink to the cabinet next to the stove, to save him having to bend over whenever he wants a drink. His back isn’t what it used to be. 

“It’s…” Shonda starts, but doesn’t finish, she sounds unhappy.

“Is it calculus again? You know you don’t need to bother with that stuff if you don’t like it.” Shem tries to reassure her.

“I finished calculus 3 years ago, Grandpa.” she says, sounding almost as frustrated with him as he is with himself.

“Oh.” he says, “Of course you did, I’m sorry baby.”

Shem feels light-headed for a moment. He realizes that he can’t remember how old Shonda is. She can’t be older than 14, right? But that would mean she finished calculus when she was 11, and that doesn’t seem right at all. He’s confused and his head is starting to hurt. 

“Are you doing good?” He asks, he might not be 100% right now, but he can still encourage her a bit.

Her hands still. She bows her head and breathes deeply. He’s upset her again, somehow.

“I’m doing great. Top of most of my classes. Top in Florida for orbital mechanics,” She bites out, bitterly. 

Why would she be bitter about doing so well in school? And top in the state in such a hard subject, too. Back when Shem was still fighting the good fight, he helped sabotage a few Vulcan satellites. He was never the numbers man, but he saw enough of that side of the work to be deeply impressed with the people who could do it. And his granddaughter is one of them. He’s so proud of her, and that pride joins with a bone deep sadness. If there was still a fight worth fighting, Shonda could.... But no, it’s too late now. 

“That’s real good, baby. You’ve always been a smart, smart girl. But why don’t you take a break and tell me what’s bothering you?”

“You want to know what’s bothering me?” Shonda asks angrily. 

That’s not like her. She’s never been the kind of kid who’d raise her voice to her elders. Or is she? He has the creeping feeling that something like this has happened before.

“Of course I do.” He says, “Whatever it is, we can talk it through. Figure out a way to fix it.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Shonda says dismissively, folding up her personal computer and getting up.

“Now you just wait a minute, missy!” Shem raises his voice instinctually, “I’m not done talking to you!”

“Oh! I’m so sorry, grandpa! Let me help.” Shonda bites back sarcastically, “Here’s the problem. According to my teacher, I’m an ‘extremely notable natural talent’ at orbital mechanics and subwarp propulsion. I’m damn good at it, and I love it. But the only way to put it to any damn use is to join Starfleet. Which I can’t. Because I’m not 18 yet, and because of YOU. Still think you can help?” 

Shem feels a deep and terrible sinking in his stomach, “I thought you were smarter than that, Shonda. Starfleet is a trap, baby. Something to keep smart folks like you occupied. You could do so much good…”

“Doing what?” Shonda snaps, “Hiding out in the mountains with a bunch of bitter old men like you, taking pot shots at Vulcan glidecraft and deorbiting random satellites like it’s 2099? Or hanging out with those Terra Prime assholes? Spraypainting ‘Teach Them to Fear the Earth’ on random walls and pretending that’s going to change anything?”

Shem freezes. Not at her words, although they’re shocking enough on their own. But because she knows. Ava wouldn’t tell her. She never wanted Shonda to be involved in that **…** Look how that turned out. But he didn’t… or at least he doesn’t remember…

“You stop yelling at your granddaddy right this minute, young lady!” Ava storms into the kitchen.

“You don’t-” Shem starts, but Shonda interrupts him.

“He started it!” She says defiantly.

“He wasn’t trying to start ANYTHING.” Ava insists, “He just can’t remember. Is really it so hard to be kind to him?”

“You don’t-” Shem tries again, he’s always hated yelling, and his daughter and granddaughter drown him out.

“He hates EVERYTHING that I represent, Mom. Everything I want to do with my life. How can I not hate him back?”

Shonda hates him?!

“He doesn’t hate you, he loves you more than anything.” Ava tries to reason with her.

“Only because he cannot remember who I am.” Shonda responds icily.

It’s like there’s an alien in her skin. The way she’s standing, the way she keeps trying to school her face into a neutral mask in between the bouts of yelling. Her teacher said she was an ‘extremely notable natural talent’, that’s not something a human would say. They’ve gotten to her, right under his nose, poisoned her root-and-branch 

“How did you let this happen?” He asks Ava.

“You will NOT speak about your grandfather that way!”

He begins to weep, “It’s my fault. I should’ve told you more. Both of you. You don’t remember what it was like. What it was-- what it was like. You don’t remember what happened to those poor children in ‘99 . You don’t know what it was-- was like before they started pretending we had a choice. It’ll be like that again, you mark my words. The second we step out of line. But you won’t listen, oh no.”

“Daddy, you’re getting agitated again.” Ava says, painting concern on her face, as if she gives a damn about anything, “Let me get your medicine.”

Shonda stares coldly on.

“You’re damn right I’m agitated. You NEVER listened to me, no matter how much you pretended to. And YOU” he turns on Shonda, “It’s too late for you. Has been for a long, long time.”

He’s about to say more when Ava comes at him with some kind of plastic doo-dad that Shem knows to be afraid of, but not why. It’s pink of all things. He doesn’t shrink away fast enough. Ava is ready for him. Ready for this. She presses it against his arm. He feels a needle stick. She had it ready. She’s done this before. This has all happened before. Today has happened before. Over and over, maybe. His head is heavy, fuzzier and fuzzier. He’s dimly aware of being led to bed before he loses consciousness.

When he wakes up, in the wee hours of the morning, he doesn’t remember the fight, but he has a feeling and goes to check on his granddaughter in her room. She’s not there, and Shem does not require the full context of the situation to be absolutely devastated by the empty bookshelves and the note on the neatly made bed that says:

‘I’m not coming back.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Forced sedation, psychological cruelty to the elderly, dementia, yelling, foreshadowed Adult Fear


	3. Where the Winds Tried to Blow and We Said: “No”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Picard family gathers to bury someone long dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been awhile, hasn't it? But I'm back, and I brought the pain. Also, extended descriptions of late 21st century architecture.

Marianne Picard putters restlessly in her kitchen. There’s very little left to do. The house is spotless. The Bœuf Bourguignon is simmering quietly on the stove. There’s a basket of fresh gougères on the kitchen table, still steaming. She let René pilfer one, as a bribe for good behavior. It hasn’t been very effective. He’s been ill-tempered for a couple of weeks now. Robert has been too engrossed with all of the arrangements to pay much attention to him, and she… well, she’s been preoccupied in her own way, too.

“Why does Grand-père François Phillipe have to be buried here, anyway?” he asks, for the thousandth time.

Marianne shakes her head. That’s certainly  _ not _ how she would refer to the long dead body they’re burying today. 

She can’t give him a good reason, because there is no good reason, at least not to her way of thinking, so she just says, “It’s important to your father, dear.” 

Marianne loves her husband dearly, and she knew, going into their marriage, that loving Robert meant loving the vineyard, the village, and all of his family traditions, too. A hundred and one odd little notions, some easier to swallow than others. All held to with that unbreakable conviction that attracted her to him in the first place. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s rarely been this difficult, either.

“What do you think Grand-père François Phillipe’s friend will be like?” René asks.

A question that's weighed heavily on Marianne recently. She looked the strange young man up on the computer at her sister’s house, shortly after Robert began planning all of this. All that she was able to find was a name, a public advisory that he’s been convicted of serious violent crimes, and a series of dry articles in Vulcan history journals credited to him. She thought about sending a message to Jean-Luc, asking for more. Hegel was found by the Enterprise, after all. But that would mean telling Jean-Luc what his brother has planned, and she’s sure he wouldn’t want to know.

René deserves a proper answer. Marianne sits down at the table with him.

“I don’t know.” She says, because it’s good to be honest with children, “Your father is convinced that the two of them are going to be great friends, but that remains to be seen.”

“Do you think he’ll be…” René seems to search for the words, “... mean?”

“Monsieur Hegel had to do some very bad things, long ago. But if he were dangerous to people here and now, he wouldn’t be allowed out and about.”

“So the Rehabilitation Commission helped him?” René asks.

He recently went on his first school trip to New Zealand. She was one of the chaperones. He was so upset at even the sanitized, age-appropriate discussions of the history of criminal justice on Earth, and so relieved to see that such horrors were a thing of the past.

“That’s right, dear.” Marianne says, even though she has her doubts.

Marianne remembers all too well her last school trip to New Zealand, at 18. How different a place it had seemed, when many of the troubled looking people wearing tracking anklets were just a year or two older than herself. How much more foreboding the talk of ‘typical rehabilitation timelines’. A habitual killer should expect to be held for a decade or more before they are ready to return to society. And while Andy Hegel was more soldier than serial killer, less than a year seems vastly insufficient. 

“What you must remember, René, is that Monsieur Hegel is a very sick man. He was born with certain difficulties, and acquired more through hardship. He may look and act very strange. He may become upset very easily, so it’s important that you-”

René interrupts, with a surprisingly convincing impression of Robert, “‘Don’t pester him with too many damn questions!’”

Marianne forces herself to smile, “That’s right, dear.”

The hum of an incoming shuttlecraft startles her slightly. She puts the food into the stasis unit cleverly hidden under a false bottom in the pantry. Robert shows no signs of relenting on the matter of a replicator, but Marianne has been able to win some concessions over the years. 

At about the same time, Robert and Jacques emerge from the wine cellar, carrying altogether more wine than is appropriate, or considering their guest’s special history, entirely wise. But Robert and Jacques take great pride in being able to drink like 21st century men, and simply won’t be convinced to deprive themselves of the opportunity to measure themselves against the genuine article. 

“Marianne!” Robert calls out, “We have done it. If he doesn’t enjoy these, he doesn’t have a tongue in his mouth!”

She rolls her eyes, “A wasted effort, as I’ve explained. The early 21st century American palate was far from refined. You’ll be lucky if he can tell the red from the white.” 

Normally Robert wouldn’t let a jab like that go unchallenged, but he’s been in a magnanimous mood lately.

“We promise to be patient with him, Marianne.” He says, as he sets the bottles down in the kitchen.

“Don’t worry, I’ll hold him to it.” Jacques adds.

It’s strange to see him in his priest’s cassock outside of the local historical re-enactment area. That he is here as a priest in earnest. The last time was shortly after René’s birth. Marianne did not approve, but there are many things that go on at Chȃteau Picard that Marianne does not approve of. 

“His ship is landing!” René shouts through the open backdoor, having already gone outside to watch.

“Go with him Robert.” Marianne says, “I want a quick word with Jacques. We’ll be along in a moment.”

Robert harrumphs, but he goes.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Marianne turns to Jacques, “Do you have it?”

Jacques nods and pulls a communicator from his pocket, “I contacted Emergency Response, and told them about our guest. They can be here in 20 seconds.”

“Good. Give it to me.”

“You don’t trust me?” Jacques asks.

“You’re going to try and outdrink a 21st century revolutionary. It might be best if I held onto it.”

“I’m not quite so competitive as Robert, you know.”

“But still.” Marianne insists

Jacques hands her the communicator. Marianne chose a dress with deep pockets today for just this reason.

He puts a hand on her shoulder, “I think you’ve taken more than sufficient precautions for your dinner guest. Try to relax.”

“I was against this,” Marianne says quietly.

“I know. But it's happening.” 

Marianne nods grimly, “You’re right. Let’s not keep Monsieur Hegel waiting.” 

The shuttle touches down just as Marianne crosses the threshold. 

It’s a Vulcan craft, which makes sense. According to a concerningly enthusiastic Robert, François Philippe Picard died in a skirmish with Vulcan peacekeeping forces outside Sherbrooke, Quebec. After dispatching him, the Vulcans dutifully kept his body in stasis, for his family or friends to claim. But no one ever did, and at some point it was decided that disposing of him and those like him was politically inadvisable. That it would dredge up bad memories. Marianne supposes that the cost of sending a shuttlecraft from Vulcan to Earth and back again compares favorably to the cost of running a stasis unit indefinitely. 

The back of the craft opens, revealing a Vulcan pilot, a simple wooden coffin on an anti-grav sled, and Andy Hegel. 

Hegel gets up from his seat and turns to the pilot, still seated. A ray of sun reflects off the implant on the right side of his head. He must’ve been very eager to be rid of some of his difficulties, to undertake something so drastic so soon.

“Your service honors us.” he says, sounding very unsure, “Or wait, was I supposed to say that earlier?”

The pilot sounds almost amused when she replies, “Yes, you were, but I appreciate the… sentiment. It is my wish that your ceremony has the desired result.”

Marianne darts her eyes back and forth between Jacques and Robert, trying to gauge their reactions. Jacques looks surprised, but not overly perturbed. Robert, predictably, is clearly shocked, and likely feeling more than a little betrayed. Marianne relaxes a bit. The worst of her fears appear to be unwarranted. She still has to worry about friction at the dinner table, but she’s prepared for that.

“Thanks.” Hegel says, before grasping the push-bar of the anti-grav sled with gently shaking hands.

He disembarks, pushing the sled ahead of him. His movements are strange. Very strange. Strange, but self-consistent. Careful, hesitant movements coupled with twitches and shakes that all together somehow more or less balance. If Marianne saw a stranger moving like that, she’d assume they were at least part alien. But that certainly isn’t the case here. Quite the contrary. From Hegel’s perspective,  _ she’s  _ the alien. They all are. Humanity isn’t quite the same anymore, after all.

The gangway retracts as soon as he’s clear, and the ship takes off a moment later. Gentle as a whisper. Marianne half-remembers someone telling her that ships have to be able to take off and land very quietly to be allowed on Vulcan itself. Vulcans are not at all fond of noise.

Hegel walks up to Robert. He looks much more like a real man than she expected; his chest is nearly flat, and there are irregular patches of very fine stubble on his face. He’s a bit short, especially for a man, but that’s to be expected of his time period. Not that she’s one to talk.

“Hello. I..” there is a space where a verbal hesitator should be, but is not, “I am- _ I’m _ , actually it is pretty obvious who I am, is it not- damnit,  _ isn’t- _ ”

Perhaps it  _ was _ too soon for such a drastic option as neurocybernetics.

“Are you all right?” René asks, tactlessly, interrupting him.

Marianne freezes for the long few seconds it takes for Hegel to respond. Searching his face for even the slightest spark of violence. But there isn’t one.

“Yes. Sorry. Still adjusting to this thing. Sometimes it works just fine, and sometimes it is a real pain.” Hegel says, tapping the implant much more firmly than seems wise, “Let me try again, I am Andy Hegel, I assume you are familiar with François Phillipe, Arriane’s husband.”

As discordant as it was to hear René call the body ‘Grand-père’, it’s more so to hear Hegel talk about the body and  _ her  _ like people he knows. Because they are. Were.

Robert reaches out to shake Hegel’s hand, who reluctantly releases his grip on the anti-grav sled and passively allows it. 

Robert gestures towards her, “This is my wife, Marianne.”

Hegel nods at her, but does not offer his hand.

“It’s good to meet you.” Marianne says, and can’t tell if she’s being honest or not.

“My friend, Father Jacques.”

“Really? Legitimately?” Hegel asks, taking in the cassock and priest’s collar, “Is that not-  _ isn’t _ that illegal or something?”

Jacques chuckles, “That’s overstating the case, somewhat. Although it certainly isn’t approved of. But yes, I am really a priest.”

Hegel smiles slightly before uttering utter nonsense, “That is as cold as perdition.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” Jacques says, after giving him a moment to clarify on his own.

Hegel’s hands clench tightly for a moment, and he seems to consider carefully before he speaks again, “It is praiseworthy to persist in one’s convictions despite social disapproval or legal sanction.”

“Thank you.” Jacques says, something catching in his voice.

“No. Thank  _ you _ .” Hegel replies, “François Phillipe was not religious when I knew him, but his Catholicism was very important to him later in his life. I am glad that you are here to do this properly, the way he would have wanted. The way Arriane would have wanted for him.”

It’s hard not to judge Hegel for the tenderness with which he refers to  _ her _ . Marianne struggles to remind herself that it’s a tenderness born from a personal relationship of some kind, not from some misguided admiration for Arriane Picard’s burning hatred for aliens.

“The chapel is this way.” Robert says, gesturing to the nearby path. 

He laid it himself, laboriously, the ‘old fashioned’ way, when he was a young man, in the weeks after Jean-Luc was accepted into Starfleet Academy. 

Hegel nods and follows.

The chapel. Robert’s pride, and his father’s before him. It’s a textbook Early Interstellar period construction. It’s meant to look ‘old fashioned’, to blend in with pre-War buildings, but it sticks out like a sore thumb to anyone who knows. The late 21st century’s desperation to imbue new constructions with all the remembered weight and grandeur of the countless fine old buildings destroyed by Earth’s first and last fully nuclear war, warring with the irresistible compulsion to build them to stand up to another one if necessary. The Picard family chapel is a bit coyer about its durability than most. A lovely, optimistic, roughhewn stone facade, made of multicolored local stones bound with bright white calcium carbonate mortar covers a paranoid core of laser cut, high density synthetic granite composite bound together with an adaptive carbon fiber matrix. The windows give the game away, though; high, narrow slits filled with ‘stained glass’ made of crude, early transparent aluminium in an unsettling abstract pattern of livid red and orange highlights surrounded by creamy whites melding smoothly into dark, stormy grays. The unmistakable colors of all late 21st century art. The play of smoke and fire. The colors of a sun that rose, shone, and set through a thick dusty haze, for years. 

Beside the chapel is a graveyard. It’s small in absolute terms, but quite large for a family plot. There are 50 or so graves made from the same local stone as the chapel’s facade. Disproportionately from the late 21st and early 22nd centuries, before burial in space and matter recycling became the preferred methods, with a few later stones marking the graves of especially fervent traditionalists. 

Andy Hegel stops for half a step, and Marianne hears his breath catch in his throat for a moment, before he continues walking.

They reach the large, imposing doors of the chapel. Elaborately carved oak over a carbon fiber core. The carvings depict the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth, with richly detailed closeups of his wounds and his anguished face. An unnecessary level of detail, Marianne thinks, glancing at René to see if the imagery is upsetting him, like it did when he was younger. Fortunately, her son looks more bored than anything else.

There’s a hidden button that opens the doors, but Robert and Jacques insist on dragging them open by hand.

Hegel bristles at that, although Marianne isn’t sure why. 

“When was this place built?” he asks, running one hand across the stone work of the deep recessed arch that houses the door, knocking it gently with two knuckles in places.

“2073. By Claude Picard, François Philippe and Arriane’s eldest, when he took over the vineyard.” Robert rattles off effortlessly.

Hegel nods, as confirming something to himself, “It looks like something she’d design. She must have shown him her old drawings.”

Robert is taken aback, “Arriane was an architect?”

“Architecture student. She never finished. After Trump overturned the US election, she asked me to teach her to use explosives and started working with us full time. The idea was for me to take a step back and focus on the manufacturing side, but...” Hegel doesn’t finish his thought, and seemingly unaware of the weighty implications of what he just said, asks “So we want him on the altar, right?”

Robert begins to ask something, before being silenced by Jacques' hand on his shoulder. René just stares.

“Yes, on the altar.” Jacques says, projecting calm in that special way of his. Marianne remains convinced that he should have been a counselor, rather than a reenactor. 

Hegel pushes the cart up to the roughhewn white marble altar, crossed with wide stripes of red and orange light from the stained glass windows.

"If the adults could help me, that would be good.” Hegel says matter-of-factly, “He’s heavier than you’d think.”

And that is how Marianne Picard has the absolutely surreal experience of hefting a 300-some-year-old corpse in a new box onto marble quarried a decade after his death, with the help of one of his impossibly still-living friends. Hegel and Robert on one end, her and Jacques on the other. François Philippe's body is indeed heavier than she would expect.

Hegel stares at the coffin and the altar for a long moment, his hands twitching and waving, presumably involuntarily, at his sides. Robert starts to reach over to put a hand on his shoulder, or perhaps even an arm around the younger man. Fortunately Marianne is able to stop him with a sharp glare and a shake of her head. Even more fortunately, Hegel doesn't appear to notice either the attempt or the silent admonition.

Marianne takes René by the hand and bids Robert to follow with a look. She settles them into one of the four short pews. The one on the left, in the front row. They're simple, like the altar. Plain polished oak. The chapel was made to accommodate perhaps two dozen people at the absolute most, and it still feels cavernously empty. 

Hegel takes his seat in the back right pew. As far away from them as possible. As if he’s some minor or secondary participant, and not the only one here, or indeed anywhere, who actually knew the deceased. Jacques takes his position at the altar and begins the ceremony. It’s strange. Marianne has seen Jacques perform hundreds of times at the historical re-enactment area, and even watched him execute the rituals in earnest a few times. Baptisms and funerals for the four or five families in France that want them. But this is different, somehow. Heavier. 

Time drags and jumps. They say Psalm 103. Marianne’s mouth moves along with the words effortlessly. Robert’s voice is thick with emotion as he recites, for those who have ears to hear. They sing “Saints of France”. Hegel’s singing voice is earnest, but flawed. He sings the hymn more accurately than she would expect from the Universal Translator. His voice breaks a few times, sometimes in the way of teenage boys, and sometimes with what sounds like sorrow. She has to resist the urge to glance back at him. She notices that Jacques' gaze falls on the young man frequently as he reads from the book of Amos. 

It’s not the correct reading for the season, but he reads, strong and clear, “Then the LORD said to me, ‘The time is ripe for my people Israel; I will spare them no longer. In that day,’ declares the Sovereign LORD, ‘the songs in the temple will turn to wailing. Many, many bodies – flung everywhere! Silence!” and finishes, “Hear this, you who trample the needy and do away with the poor of the land… The LORD has sworn by himself, the Pride of Jacob: ‘I will never forget anything they have done.’”

Hegel lets out a short throaty sob in response, and Marianne understands Jacques’ choice.

When it’s time for Communion, Robert and René go up to the altar. Marianne stays behind.

Seeing that Hegel has done likewise, Jacques gently adds, “All baptized Christians are welcome to receive.”

Giving into curiosity, Marianne allows herself to look backwards to see the young man’s response.

“I was baptized a Lutheran, not a Catholic.” he says quietly.

“The faithful no longer have the luxury of those sorts of distinctions.” Jacques says.

Hegel shakes his head, “No. He would want everything to be just right. And I am not Catholic.”

And so the ceremony comes to an end. Jacques tenderly feeds a bit of bread and a little swallow of wine to Robert and René in turn. The final song is ‘Ave Maria’. 

Then, the four adults place the coffin back on the hover cart. Robert pushes it this time, and Hegel doesn’t seem to mind. There’s another secret button to open the doors on the inside, and Marianne pushes it. There’s an open grave waiting in the graveyard, with a simple stone marker that reads, 

‘François Phillipe Picard

1996-2065

Comrade, Husband, Father’

She’s relieved. At first Robert played around with the idea of something much grander. Some line of jingoistic poetry from the time of his death, or of Robert’s own invention. It’s good someone was able to talk sense into him. Jacques maneuvers the hover cart over the grave, and taps in the instructions for it to sink gently to the bottom.

There are five old anti-grav shovels stuck in the pile of dirt beside the grave. Wordlessly, Hegel takes one. His first shovelful of earth ends up scattered across the graveyard, presumably because he was expecting an ancient unpowered implement instead. Even Robert isn’t  _ that  _ old-fashioned. Robert joins him immediately, followed by Jacques and then René. Marianne is struck for a moment by the image of the three of them, burying a man who died centuries before they were born, alongside a contemporary of the deceased. None of it seems real. But real or not, there’s work to be done, so she joins in.

It takes them a little over an hour. They finish just as the sun sets. She can hear that Hegel is weeping. 

This time, Robert does put a hand on his shoulder and says, “He’s home now.”

“I hope so.” Hegel responds, tolerating the touch for a moment before taking a step back, “How far is the local transit station? Do I need to request a hoverbike to come out and meet me?”

Of course Hegel would prefer trains and such to transporters. A few hours ago, Marianne would have been ecstatic to hear that he wanted to leave early. 

But now, to her astonishment, she hears herself say, “But you must stay for dinner.”

It’s a decision she’ll reflect on for a long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to Klaaraa, for editing my work, encouraging me to write more of it, and most importantly, being my friend. Merry Christmas to all my readers who celebrate it and a Happy Impending End of 2020 to everyone else.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as always to my beta Klaaraa


End file.
